Erie

The house wasn't much to look at, Although it was grand in its day. But we never got tired of visiting, Or seeing the family on Sunday. The floors were old and creaky, The walls were strong and tall. The yard was ever the smallest, Yet, we still found a way to play ball. The clock in the kitchen kept pendulum time, Its gentle gongs...as the hours were to go. The louder sounds were of plinking from the front room, As we banged the keys of the old piano. The sweet aromas from the bakery next door, Wafted over us, and the neighborhood in the air. Always reminding one of that pleasant place, Filled with caked and cookies and eclairs. We didn't understand the words, That our grandparents' were to say. That "Polish" banter between them and our parents, Have kept their secrets even today. While our moms were helping Grandma in the kitchen, Our dad were on the porch playing cards. As for us...we ran our little games, More and more noise from the yard. Only memories now remain, And sometimes after a day of aching hands and weary feet, My mind turns to those more pleasant days, As I remember the times, spent on Erie Street.